


Retrograde

by WriterGirl128



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Garrison Adashi, Gen, Kerberos Mission, M/M, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Sick Shiro (Voltron), one part gay and fluffy, two parts painful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-13 22:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterGirl128/pseuds/WriterGirl128
Summary: Shiro was sick—and then he wasn't.(Or snapshots of Shiro's life, from end to beginning)





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is broken up into three chapters: 1) Pre-Kerberos, 2) Kerberos through Shiro’s Crash, 3) Voltron's awakening through current canon s07, all from Shiro's POV
> 
> slight tw towards the end of this chapter//: blood, gore (will be more prominent in next chapters, will update tws and tags accordingly)
> 
> happy reading friends

It started with an almost imperceptible ache.

It was more of a soreness than actual pain, if he was honest with himself, and for the longest time it was… negligible. A nonfactor. Just a hint of tightness that strained in his shoulders, in his forearms and calves and hips, so similar to the remnants of a two-day sore that he didn’t even flag it as something to be concerned about. As something dangerous.

Shiro had always been an active kid. He was no stranger to the tender muscles that came hand in hand with physical exertion, and figured that was all it was. He didn’t think twice about it. Most days, he could even convince himself he’d been imagining the whole thing.

Then one day during P.E., his knees gave out.

He was thirty-two burpees in and the teacher was about to blow the whistle—they were doing circuit training, and their 60 seconds at this station was almost up—but the second he sprang out of the low crouch, pain flared through his lower half like a current. He didn’t land so much as _crumble,_ collapsing weakly to the scuffed rubber floor, the world stuttering to a halt around him.

He’d never felt pain like that, before.

It was deep-seated and sharp _,_ and even as he lurched to the side and tried to hold himself up on his elbow, he could feel his body curl tightly into itself. The impact of the fall reverberated through his bones, and it was like he was suddenly hyperaware of every single ligament and tendon in his legs, every single muscle tightening and cramping and electrifying him. His toes curled inside his sneakers and he felt horrified tears prickle behind his eyes, pain shooting through him like lightning.

He couldn’t move _._ He was going to be sick, and he couldn’t _move,_ and it felt like someone had set him on fire. He wanted to glance down to make sure that he _wasn’t_ , actually, on fire, but white starbursts of pain danced in his vision and it was like staring at the Sun.

He screwed his eyes shut, the sound of the teacher’s whistle muffled and distant.

(For a while, he convinced himself it was just freakishly intense muscle cramping.)

(Later, he learned that this was his first run-in with _nerve pain._ )

 

********

 

Shiro didn’t see a doctor until the third time he watched the muscles in his right arm visibly ripple under his skin, and lost use of his dominant hand for the better part of an hour.

He didn’t want to go, even then _,_ but Commander Rodriguez had caught him holed up and shaking in the bathroom instead of taking his physics exam and had promptly called his grandfather, who may as well have dragged him kicking and screaming.

(He’d always be grateful for what his grandfather did for him, after his parents died. Moving to America just so that he could continue his education, apply to the Galaxy Garrison and chase his dreams of being a pilot. Immersing himself in an entirely new world, leaving his home and culture behind for _him._ )

(But when the doctor came in and told him they needed to run a few more tests, Shiro wasn’t sure he’d ever been angrier at the man sitting in the corner. Because the doctor had _bad news_ written all over his face with a flimsy mask of _they’re just precautionary_ that didn’t settle any of the apprehension he felt, and Shiro wouldn’t even be there if it weren’t for that stubborn, stubborn old man.)

But that pain was the worst thing he’d ever felt in his life, and it seemed to only be getting _worse._ More intense and more frequent and _sharper,_ always fading to a lingering ache that went deeper than his muscles, seemed to radiate out from his bones themselves, from _within_ his bones—

—so he simply nodded and obliged. Let the doctors and the nurses hammer his knees and run their scans and ask him questions about his sleeping patterns and anxiety levels, and he didn’t put together until a bit later that they were looking for _symptoms._

(He didn’t want to know what they were looking for symptoms of _._ )

 

*******

 

A few days later, his grandfather pulled him from school to take him to his follow-up appointment.

It was not good news.

Shiro didn’t go back to class that day.

 

*******

 

When he dragged his feet through the Garrison the next morning, his teachers looked more _saddened_ than angry with his truancy, and he knew his grandfather must’ve alerted the school.

Which was fine. He wasn’t sure he could say the words out loud himself, anyways.

Shiro did all he could to hunker low into his seat and ignore the universe.

 

*******

 

He eyed the medication bottles warily. Arranged in a neat little row, like a police lineup.

_(“Mr. Shirogane, can you identify which suspect has influenced your sleeping patterns?”_

_“The... fourth, sir.”_

_“How about the loss of appetite?”_

_“Number two, I think. Or five? Maybe both.”_

_“Weight gain?”_

_“Three.”_

_“Migraines? Nausea?”_

_“One, two, and four, sir.”_

_“Impotence, and other forms of ED?”_

_“...two.”)_

Someone was speaking to him, calling his name. Shiro. Shiro? Takashi, are you alright?

He blinked, looking up towards the voice. The nurse peered at him with concern. “You still with me, hon?”

Shiro blinked again. Swallowed. “Yeah,” he assured, “yeah, I’m—sorry.”

The nurse—Annie, according to the badge she wore—offered him a small, sympathetic smile. “I know it looks like a lot,” she acknowledged, “but if all goes as planned, we’ll be able to cut the load down in a couple of months. Aggressive, wide-spectrum treatment this early on will help identify the best regiment to slow the disease’s progression in the long run.”

 _The long run_.

What did the long run matter, when he’d be dead by 30?

“Right,” he agreed anyways. “Sure.”

She gave him another small smile, and Shiro knew she must do this a lot. Give this talk, comfort these patients, take the time to tell the dying that they’re still dying, just maybe a little slower than they would be without the meds. He was just another name on her list, and soon enough she’d be moving on to the next terminally ill kid, because that’s what this particular practice specialized in.

And Shiro regretted telling his grandfather that he was old enough and _okay_ enough to take himself to his own doctor’s appointment, because now he was sitting here _alone_ , with a woman who wasn’t dying telling him how to die _better_ , and pretty soon she’d be heading next door to her 3 o’clock appointment and Shiro would be left sitting on crinkled parchment paper with a bag of pills in his hands that he wouldn’t know what to do with.

( _“It’s just a check-in,” he’d insisted at the time. “They’ll draw some blood, send it off for some tests, give me the startup meds, and then I’ll be home. I can handle it, Ojiisan. Promise.”)_

(Now? He wasn’t so sure.)

He looked down to the bottles again as she continued. “Now, these are just a week’s supply,” she reminded him. “It’s what we had on hand. You’ll need to take a trip to your regular pharmacist to get the full month’s prescriptions. Dr. Nichols has already sent them over, so they’ll be giving you a call when they’re ready to be picked up. Should be two or three days, max.”

He nodded. “Sure,” he said again, as the words on the bottle labels blurred together.

“Now, we recommend a two-week pill box, broken up into morning, afternoon, and night—to accommodate the dexamethalsone of course—” she pointed out one of the bottles, “—which you’ll need to take three times a day.”

Shiro nodded. He already forgot what that one did. “Of course,” he agreed, nonetheless.

She nodded and tapped the other four bottles. “The others you’ll take twice a day, morning and night, with food.”

Shiro swallowed. Nodded his head. “Okay.”

The nurse looked at him again, and there was something sympathetic about it, and it seemed _genuine_ , but somehow still didn’t offer him any comfort. “Don’t worry—” she went on gently, reading his mind, further confirmation that she does this often, “—everything you need to know is printed right here on the labels. See?” She lifted one bottle— _fingolimod_ , it read, whatever _that_ was—and pointed towards where the instructions were printed below in big, bolded font: TAKE 1 CAPSULE BY MOUTH 2 TIMES, DAILY.

Something evened out in his chest. He took a breath and nodded. Instruction. He could follow instruction. That’s what made him such a great cadet.

The nurse smiled at him again. “The pill box will help,” she said knowingly. “It’ll help you keep to schedule and form a routine with it. The most important part of this regiment is consistency—it won’t help any of us if you don’t take them as prescribed, right?”

“Right,” Shiro agreed, more for the sake of speeding this along and getting _out of this doctor’s office_ than actually confirming what was being said to him.

“And like I said,” the nurse was going on, oblivious, or maybe so used to seeing teenagers in crisis that she’s grown _immune_ to it, “it’s a broader spectrum for now, with relatively low dosage tablets, but it won’t stay that way. We’ll narrow down the meds once we see what’s working and what isn’t—there’s no one-size-fits-all when it comes to medicine, after all.”

Shiro swallowed. He’d never felt less human in his life. He felt like a lab rat, a genetic anomaly under a microscope.

Logically, he _understood_ that they had to play it by ear. Trial and error. He just wasn’t looking forward to the _error_ portion of things.

“Sure. Of course.”

It wasn’t the nurse’s fault. She was just doing her job. And she was kind, and friendly, and there really was no sensible reason Shiro should feel like he needed to get away from her as soon as he possibly could, but he _did_ , and it was all just... a lot. Too much.

The nurse scribbled something down on the pad attached to her clipboard, before looking back up. “Do you have any questions, hon?”

And— _yeah,_ of course he did.

_How much time are these going to buy me?_

_How much worse would it get if I decided not to take them?_

_When will we be able to know if they’re helping?_

_These potential side effects that you listed—how likely_ is it _that I experience periodic blindness?_

_When do you think I’m going to die? Just a ballpark is fine._

Again, Shiro swallowed, shaking his head. “No, ma’am.”

The nurse smiled at him again, as if sensing his dishonesty. “You sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Annie pursed her lips, clearly not buying it, but didn’t push. “Alright, then, Shiro,” she sighed, clicking her pen in finality and slipping it behind the clip of her clipboard. “If you have any questions or concerns down the line, anything at all, you know where to find us. Give us a call, ask for me or Dr. Nichols, and we’d be happy to chat for a bit. The lab results should be up on the patient portal within a few days for you to look at, but Dr. Nichols will go through everything with you when you come back next month for a follow-up with you and your grandfather. Anything serious, we’ll call and make an appointment for you to come in sooner. Sound good?”

He mustered up his best attempt at a smile. “Sounds great, Annie,” he assured, and put everything left in him to make it sound genuine. “Thanks for your help.”

She smiled a bit again, as if pleased to receive more than a one-word-answer. “I’ll see you soon, Shiro,” she said, and handed him two slips of paper. “Give one of these to the receptionist at the front desk, and the other to your grandfather for me, okay?”

Shiro took the papers, nodding as he folded one and shoved it unceremoniously into his pocket. “Sure thing.”

Annie gave him another smile, dipping her head into a nod as she turned to go. “Take care, Shiro.”

And the door was just about to close behind her when Shiro’s gaze fell back to the medications again. “Uh—Annie?”

She froze, turning and poking her head back into the room. “Yeah, hon?”

“Do I—“ he began, and broke off. He lifted his gaze to hers, pinching the hem of his t-shirt between his fingers, curling into the fabric. “I start taking these tonight?”

The nurse hesitated, for just a moment, toeing the door open a little further and stepping back inside. “It’s recommended, yes,” she affirmed, her eyebrows drawing together slightly. “Sometimes it’s easiest, so that you sleep off some of the more immediate side effects, mostly any nausea, but—most of them won’t start being effective for a week or two, minimum. Whether you start tonight or tomorrow morning is really up to you.”

Shiro let the words sink in. It was nice to know that he had control of _something,_ he supposed.

He looked to the nurse again. “Alright. Thanks again.”

The corner of her lips twitched. “You’re gonna do great, Shiro. Just take it one day at a time. Don’t let the logistics of things stress you out, okay?”

And that was—well, at first impression, _impossible._ Because the logistics of things were scaring the shit out of him. And the way she said _‘you’re gonna do great’_ made it sound like something he could will away, sheer determination alone. Like he could be healthy if he only _tried hard enough,_ and that was its own brand of frustrating—

—but she was kind and friendly and just doing her job, so Shiro nodded to her again and kept the smile on his face, hoping it hadn’t melted into a grimace. “I’ll do my best,” he assured.

And then, with another smile and another nod, she was gone.

For a moment, he did nothing, merely watched the door close in her wake as silence settled around him.

Eventually he slid off the examination bench, the parchment paper crinkling beneath him, the crook of his elbow still pulsing slightly where the phlebotomist had drawn his blood. The phantom tightness of the rubber tourniquet still squeezed at his bicep.

He approached the counter with a sigh and reached for the nondescript paper bag that laid there. He opened it, dropped the bottles in, rolled the top closed, and zipped the whole thing into the largest pocket in his backpack.

It rattled as he slung it onto his shoulder. It rattled with every step he took. He tried not to think about it.

Later, after he’d finished dinner and had stepped out of the shower, he wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror, took a hard look at his too-tired-to-be-sixteen self, and swallowed the pills down with a mouthful of tap water.

 

*******

 

Shiro’s grandfather passed before the month was up.

It was unexpected, sudden: a blood clot that made its way to his brain.

Shiro went to his next follow-up appointment alone.

 

*******

 

As it turns out, he’s got a knack for this whole _piloting_ thing.

He sits in the simulator’s pilot seat and it feels like home, the controls laid out in front of him like an expanse of land. Like someone had handed him a kingdom.

But it was better than even that, Shiro knew, because this wasn’t a kingdom at his fingertips—it was an entire galaxy.

Inside that simulator, Shiro felt _untouchable._

*******

 

“Adam? I need to tell you something.”

From across the work bench, Adam waited only a beat before looking up. He had a pencil between his teeth, textbook laid open in front of him and an uncapped highlighter in his hand hovering over his scribble-marked scrap paper, and Shiro was swept over with a wave of an embarrassing fondness at the sight.

Brown eyes found his through thick, bottom-framed glasses, and Adam took the pencil from between his teeth. His brow furrowed, a hint of alarm twisting the corners of his mouth downward. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Shiro assured, before wincing slightly and tapping his own pencil against the table. He didn’t have a rhythmic bone in his body, but the repetitive motion was grounding. “I mean—mostly. Yeah.”

Eyebrows furrowing deeper, Adam put the highlighter and pencil down. He shifted to look at Shiro more squarely. “Mostly?”

Shiro closed his eyes. This was not starting well. “Yeah. Just—mostly.”

There was a brief pause before tentative fingers graced over his own, ceasing his relentless pencil tapping. “Takashi,” he said quietly, as Shiro opened his eyes again, “you’re worrying me. What’s going on?”

And—God, those brown eyes were so warm, when they looked at him. Shiro felt bile at the back of his throat.

He twisted his wrist slightly to catch Adam’s fingers between his own, and sighed as Adam looked down in mild surprise at the gesture.

(This was still so new. Shiro was about to fuck it all up, when this was so new and _good_ and if he wasn’t sitting down, he was sure the nausea rolling in his gut would’ve bowled him over completely.)

He felt his eyebrows draw close as he, too, looked down at their interlocked fingers. “I’m sick.”

He felt Adam’s eyes flick back up to his, saw the curious tilt of his head from the periphery of his vision, but couldn’t meet the other’s eyes. “You’re… sick?”

Pressing his lips tight, Shiro nodded. “Yeah.”

(He remembered the first time Adam looked at him like that, like he was figuring out some kind of particularly difficult puzzle.

_“Shirogane, Walker,” Commander Iverson barked, “you two, simulator, 1600. You’re co-pilots for the new Bessini training initiative Omega.”_

_Shiro blinked, but obligingly made his way over to the other cadet. He was shorter, skinnier, some kind of awkward man-boy caught in the throes of adolescence—the type of person who would strike him more like a communications officer than a pilot, but he stuck his hand out regardless. “Hey,” he greeted, “looks like we’re partners.”_

_“Looks like,” the other boy agreed, taking his hand. “I’m Adam.”_

_“Shiro.”_

_And Adam just tilted his head a little, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and looked him up and down. Sharp as a fucking whip. “Shiro Shirogane?” he asked, something twitching on his lips that made Shiro’s brain stall to a halt._

_He let his arm drop back to his side as he tried to find his words again. “It’s—” he began, and cleared his throat. “It’s a nickname. My name’s Takashi, but everyone just calls me Shiro.”_

_Adam just continued to watch him with that kind of mystified almost-smile, before nodding slightly. “Huh,” he hummed, and the almost-smile grew into an actual smile. “Okay.”_

_And then, before Shiro could get a grip on that horrible jittery_ whatever _in his chest, Adam was turning away, beckoning him to follow. “C’mon, Takashi,” he called over his shoulder, “let’s go hit the simulator. I want to see my prodigy co-pilot in action before I show him up in the Bessini trials.”_

_Shiro had to force his feet to start moving, and it had nothing to do with the jab at his ego.)_

Adam was still looking at him carefully, but his expression had stayed soft. Concerned. 

(He’d had long since grown out of that man-boy phase, still lean and carrying himself on a smaller frame, but his jaw was cut and determined, and his eyes were calculating, and his shoulders were _strong_ , and steady as pillars. And he always looked at Shiro like it was some kind of gift, and Shiro still couldn’t get over the fact that this beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful creature had chosen _him.)_

“When you say _sick,_ you mean _—”_ He broke off, but the question was implied.

 “Yeah,” Shiro affirmed, nodding, and lowering his gaze again. “I mean… _sick_ sick. Not the kind that some tea and chicken soup is going to fix, unfortunately.”

There was a sharp inhale, a huff of air a beat later, before Adam’s free hand found Shiro’s as well. He rubbed small circles with his thumbs at the base of Shiro’s palms, and the gesture eased something in his chest.

Shiro closed his eyes again.  “Look,” he said, suddenly hurried, because if he didn’t get it out now he wasn’t sure he ever _would, “_ I… really like you, okay? And I really like _this._ And I don’t want to mess it up but I also don’t want to lie to you, and not telling you felt like _lying._ So I just—wanted to let you know. And if it’s, you know, a deal breaker _,_ or something, then that’s—” _horrible_ and _heartbreaking_ his mind unhelpfully supplied, and he promptly swallowed that vulnerability down, “—then that’s okay. I understand.”

“Hey,” Adam said, gently, soothing _,_ and Shiro looked up again. There was still that concern in Adam’s soft eyes, and he shook his head slightly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured Shiro, and squeezed his hands. “Just—just talk to me. How... bad is it?”

Shiro had to fight back a snort. “Well it’s definitely not _good,_ ” he cracked, and heard the edge of dark humor in his own voice. He winced, swallowing it back.

Adam’s thumbs were still making small circles, and he tipped his head, trying to catch Shiro’s eye. “Hey,” he said softly, “I’m here, yeah? I’m here. Just tell me what’s going on.”

So Shiro did. He took a breath, filled his lungs and his gut and his chest until he felt like a too-inflated balloon, and told him.

He told him about the diagnosis and the doctors and the medications he’s been on for almost a year, now. He told him about the insomnia, about the atrophy, about the spontaneous weakness that could be so sudden and severe that he can’t even tie his own shoe, let alone think about piloting an actual rocket anywhere.

When his voice faltered around the word _terminal,_ Adam simply pulled him close and pressed a kiss to Shiro’s hair.

There would be time for questions later, for explanations and details and prognoses. For now, Shiro buried his face in Adam’s chest, closed his eyes, and took a breath.

 

*******

 

Much to Shiro’s horror, they were in class when he let the words slip out.

As part of their midterm evaluations, crews were put together of one fighter pilot, one engineer, and one communications officer. Each crew was given a different simulation to run, and while they did, the other students were encouraged to watch from the displays outside the simulator and take note: what was the crew doing right? Or more importantly: what were they doing _wrong_?

But Shiro couldn’t find a single flaw. His eyes never flitted from the screen, not even once, as the crew inside worked through the simulation. Never strayed from those determined, set eyes, from that head of strategically tousled brown hair.

Shiro was a good pilot. He wasn’t the type to boast about it, preferring to worry about himself and challenges he has and ways he can improve, but—he _knew_ he was a good pilot. The half dozen all-time Garrison records he held were proof of that.

Adam was a good pilot in a different sense.

Where Shiro liked to take certain liberties in the simulator—going off-route where there was a more efficient path available, pushing the speed during combat trials, dipping just a little steeper than ordered in hopes of creating that stomach-dropping, lifting-out-of-your-seat feeling—Adam was… clean cut. He played by the rules, executed each and every procedure as directed, leading his crew with steady words and clear direction as they worked their way through the simulation.

He had his sharp eyes focused on the job at hand and barely blinked when holographic enemy warships blew one of their thrusters off. He was calm when he turned to the engineer, gears turning in his head as they worked up a game plan. After a brief back-and-forth, Adam suggested something about counterbalances and hydrolic stabilizers and a couple more mechanical terms Shiro couldn’t even _recognize_ , and the engineer just grinned before turning back to his control panel, typing away quickly.

Within moments, the blinking red warning lights faded away, and Adam weaved them flawlessly through the obstacle course of the _Meissner_ simulation valleys.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

He landed softly in the agreed rendezvous drop-site, and the simulation was complete.

The moment Adam stepped out of the simulator, his dark eyes found Shiro’s wide ones gaping at him, and he arched a brow. His lips twisted out of that stoic, firm line they’d been in, and the transition from ‘determined, knowledgeable leader’ to ‘dorky, cute boyfriend’ had Shiro’s breath caught in in his throat.

Adam jostled his elbow fondly as he drew closer. “So? How’d I do?”

Shiro shook his head, strangled and awe-struck. “God, I love you.”

And then Adam froze, and it took a long handful of seconds for Shiro to realize what he’d said.

He felt his ears go hot and he quickly averted his gaze in a wince, feeling his classmate’s eyes latch onto him. Military training aside, the Galaxy Garrison was—for all intents and purposes—a _high school._ And God knows there wasn’t much for entertainment, going to school in the middle of a literal desert. They took their entertainment where they could get it.

That didn’t stop Shiro from wanting to sink through the floor.

But Adam simply gripped his hand silently, and when Shiro turned to look at him with _I’m sorry_ and _please ignore me_ poised on his lips, Adam gave him a small smile.

They were never ones for PDA—they weren’t _saints_ about it, but most of the time they were surrounded by classmates or teachers or high-ranking military personnel and it just wasn’t _appropriate—_ so Shiro really hadn’t expected Adam to tug him close and capture his stuttering mouth with a kiss, open and full and _deep._

Just. Casually. In front of their entire class. No big deal.

Some off to his left wolf-whistled. Shiro made another noise, strangled, as Adam pulled away.

He looked… far too pleased with himself, while Shiro was pretty sure his face was going to explode.

“You never answered my question,” Adam teased quietly. “How’d I do?”

Shiro swallowed, unable to look away from those soft brown eyes. “Great,” he croaked. “You were… perfect.”

Adam grinned a bit, squeezing Shiro’s hand. “I love you, too, you know.”

And Shiro let a beat of silence pass before responding, letting those words sink in. After a pause, his heart hammering in his ears and his blood rushing like a river, he felt himself go limp with relief. “Oh, thank God,” he exhaled, dropping his forehead to rest against Adam’s.

The chorus of ‘aww’s that staggered through the simulation room was cut off by a sharp, cleared throat, and Shiro and Adam jumped away from each other. Moment broken.

“ _If you two are quite done_.”

 

*******

 

It was odd, but Shiro always felt more comfortable in a uniform than he did in civvies. _Especially_ civilian formal wear.

He shifted, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up around his elbows as he fumbled with his tie. He’d already discarded the blazer, growing uncomfortably warm under all the fabric and hoping that one less collar in the way would pave his path to success.

His grandfather had shown him, long ago, a couple of different knots, but it had been so long since he’d needed to do it himself…

Shiro sighed, letting the tie hang loose around his neck once more. “Honey?” he called absently, closing his eyes in defeat and hoping Adam could hear him from two doors down the hall. “You busy?”

There was a pause, and some shuffling, but when Shiro opened his eyes, Adam was pushing the bathroom door open and peeking his head in with a grin. “Never too busy for you,” he provided, and pushed his way through the door and over the threshold, revealing his own cleanly-pressed suit, his own perfectly-tied tie.

If Shiro grew flustered at the sight alone, Adam had the decency not to mention it.

His grin faded into something small and fond as he drew closer, reaching for Shiro’s tie. “You’re hopeless, you know that?” he murmured, crossing the two tails over each other. “Straight A’s, best fighter pilot in the class, graduating with high honors and the most records held by a single cadet in all of Garrison _history,_ able to bench press me into oblivion, and what are the two things you can’t do? Tie a tie, and cook yourself your own damn food.”

Shiro rested his hands on Adam’s waist as he worked, fingers curled around slender hips. “What do you think I keep you around for?” he teased back, squeezing slightly, sliding his hand to the small of Adam’s back. “Tying neckties and lunch dates.”

Adam arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“Mhmm.”

Tightening the tie and folding his collar over, Adam’s hands slid down to rest on his chest for just a moment before straightening out his shirt. “There,” he approved, and brushed some imaginary dust off. “Handsome as ever.”

When Adam moved to step away, Shiro tightened his hold on his waist and held him still. “Let’s not go, tonight,” he suggested, and Adam’s eyebrows shot up. “We can just stay in, y’know—spend some time together.”

“It’s the Lieutenant’s Gala,” Adam pointed out, “all the senior cadets are expected to be there. It’s the last formal event before we receive our ranks.”

“It’s a glorified _dance,”_ Shiro deadpanned. “It’s just going to be a bunch of drunk, horny teenagers trying to hook up without getting caught by Iverson.”

There was a glint in Adam’s eyes at that, something mischievous and rare. “You act like we’re going to be much different.”

Shiro felt a smile tug at his lips, and he raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble?”

Quirking an eyebrow in return, Adam pulled him closer, unwavering. “What’re they gonna do, Takashi? Expel us?”

“You used to follow the rules, you know,” Shiro laughed, sliding his hands tighter and turning, guiding him back towards their shared dorm room. “You used to be the sensible one. We can’t _both_ be idiots, this relationship would never work.”

Adam laughed, then, teeth impossibly white and tan skin dusted with a content, warm pink, as they moved together. “Don’t worry,” he assured through a smile, “it’s a one-night-only deal. You’re still the bigger idiot.”

“Mmm,” Shiro hummed, “then there’s hope for us yet. Vodka or tequila?”

“Tequila. Definitely tequila.”

“Ten bucks says Iverson won’t think to check the first level server room.”

“Make it twenty and you have yourself a bet, Shirogane.”

 

*******

 

Iverson didn’t check the first level server room.

Shiro couldn’t even enjoy his winnings, instead clutching a pillow to his chest as Adam padded out of bed and over to draw the blinds closed.

“I never want to drink tequila again,” he grumbled, shoving his face into the fabric.

The bed shifted as Adam plopped himself back down, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through Shiro. “You know, for a guy your size, you’d think you could hold your liquor a bit better.”

Shiro grunted, kicking him halfheartedly. “You calling me fat?”

“With that body? Hell no. You’re like six two and solid muscle. I’m calling you a lightweight.”

Shiro lifted his head just enough to squint through the din of the half-lit room, hair sticking up every which way. “Not what you were calling me last night.”

Adam flicked him in the forehead. “Learn to handle your Cuervo.”

Shiro frowned, rubbing at the spot with the heel of his hand before falling limp against the pillows once again. “Learn to be nicer to your poor, hungover boyfriend.”

“I just closed the blinds for you, didn’t I?”

“Shhh. Too loud.” A beat passed, and then Shiro was tossing the pillow aside in favor of tugging Adam closer. “C’mere. Cold.”

“You’re like a fucking koala, Takashi.”

“Mmm.”

“If you puke on me, I’m leaving you.”

“Mmmmm. Sure, babe.”

“I’m being serious.”

But Shiro was already asleep again.

 

*******

 

When they moved in together after graduation, neither of them remembered to book a moving truck to transport all of their furniture.

They spent the first six days in their new apartment sleeping on the living room floor, nestled up in blankets and sleeping bags in lieu of an actual bed.  

 

*******

 

The medications worked almost too well.

Weeks, _months_ could pass without any kind of flare up. No tightness or swelling or spasms, no piercing nerve pain or atony. They worked so well, with surprisingly few side effects, that sometimes Shiro forgot he was sick.

Which only made it that much worse when the flare ups _did_ occur. When his legs felt too weak to move, let alone support his body weight. When he’d clench his hands into unintentional fists, unable to relieve the tension in his forearms without subconsciously forcing the muscles to cramp. When all he could do was sit, hunched over on himself and _shaking,_ feeling sweat bead on his forehead and roll down his temple, unable to lift his hand to wipe it away.  Every inch of his body tingling and aching.

Not only was it physically painful _,_ but it was a sharp-edged reality check that rooted him into the truth. Ripped him away from dreams of flying and exploring and growing up with the man he loved—the man he graduated with, the man he lived with, the man who worked with him and ate toast with him in his kitchen and slept in his bed.

When it started getting bad again, he hid it from Adam, hoping against everything that the new corticosteroid he’d been switched to would even everything out soon.

 

*******

 

“Oh, Takashi… you should’ve _told_ me, love.”

The bathroom tile was cold, harsh under his knees as he curled over the porcelain. “Sorry,” he croaked out, throat raw and burning with acidity. “Didn’t wanna—ruin everything.”

And Adam’s hands were on his back, cool and thin and strong as they pressed down flat against tense muscle. Rubbing slowly, in small then large circles, warming the area before applying more pressure. “You’re not ruining anything,” he murmured, and the heels of his hands began to prod gently into hard, coiled knots.

A breath hitched from Shiro’s chest, a keening whine escaping his throat, and he fought the urge to recoil away from the touch. In the long run, he knew it would help, he knew it would make it better.

It was just so fucking _painful._

He closed his eyes into a wince, trying not to wretch.

 

*******

 

His doctor gave him a packet full of stretches and low-impact calisthenics that were supposed to help keep things loose and moving freely. Besides his normal exercise regime, he tried to do them at least twice a day, and Adam, the supportive boyfriend he was, vowed to join him in them when he was able.

Adam, Shiro knew, regretted that vow almost immediately.

It brought a smile to Shiro’s face regardless, watching as Adam dragged a yoga mat over to lay parallel to his own, before pressing a sleepy, grumpy kiss to Shiro’s temple and murmuring, “ ‘s too early to be a pretzel, Takashi.”

Shiro just laughed, attempting to smooth out Adam’s atrocious bedhead. “You can go back to sleep, you know,” he reminded him. “It’s only six—you could probably get another hour in before having to start prepping for your classes.”

But Adam simply grunted, batting Shiro’s hand away and melting down to the mat. “And miss out on seeing you all flushed and twisty?” he half yawned, tugging on Shiro’s pant leg. “I don’t think so. Now get down here and start pretzeling, Shirogane. You’re burning daylight.”

“The sun hasn’t risen, yet, honey.”

“Hey. What have I said about logic?”

Shiro sank down to his mat, as well, sighing. “It has no place in your house before coffee.”

“Exactly.”

“But we live in an apartment, Adam. Not a house. And I pay half the rent.”

“Fine. Then keep the logic on _your_ side. I don’t want it anywhere near me.”

And Shiro just laughed, again, tugging him closer by the waist and pressing his nose to the soft hollow below Adam’s jawline. “Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning, heathen.”

 

*******

 

The first time they sent Shiro into deep space, he fainted before even breaking atmosphere.

 _Low blood pressure,_ the medics said, _acute anemia and low blood O2._ Something to do with the shift in gravitational forces and atmospheric pressure, probably.

When they got back to his apartment, he and Adam had their first real fight.

(They’d gotten into spats, before, but this was the first fight that a few hours and the concept of an impending bedtime didn’t resolve.)

They took turns sleeping on the couch for nearly a week and a half.

 

 

*******

 

When he had to start wearing the e-stim bracelet, Adam smiled and told him it looked like some kind of knockoff Spiderman web-shooter.

It took Shiro a while to find the humor in it. The metal was cold around his wrist at rest, an unfamiliar weight, clunky and hard and determined to be seen, bulking up even the sleeve of his uniform around the cuff when he tried to keep it hidden. It was no better when active, sending unpleasant, stinging sensations up the length of his arm that made his hands shake, make his chest feel tingly and his head feel light.

He’d shifted tired, bloodshot eyes to Adam. “You realize this means that I’m getting _worse,_ right? The fact that I have to wear this?”

Adam simply sighed, sobering a bit and settling into the couch beside him, before handing over a mug of hot tea. “I know, love.”

They sat in silence for a long moment after that, Shiro sipping his tea and letting himself sink further into the cushions, Adam folding his legs under himself and doing the same.

Shiro was about to break the silence with an apology— _I’m sorry you have to deal with this, I’m sorry we’ve been together for so long that now you feel obligated to stay, I’m sorry that I can’t be healthy for you—_ when Adam turned to him more squarely, sudden and abrupt.

“We should get married,” he said, short and to the point.

Shiro swore his eyes could’ve bugged out of his head, and he promptly choked on his tea. “We—what?” he coughed out, ragged.

Adam just gave him a small smile, nodding. “We should get married,” he repeated, as if it were that simple.

Slowly, Shiro placed his mug down to the coffee table, turning to his partner of nearly four years. “Adam, we’re—we’re twenty years old _.”_

Adam shrugged, still smiling at him. “Yeah. And?”

“And I’m _dying.”_

Adam’s smile flickered slightly—he’d always hated when Shiro said it, like that, all forward and blunt, but Shiro had learned early on that beating around the bush only made everything _hurt more_ in the long run.

Despite the too-direct words, Adam pressed on. “All the more reason to marry young.”

“ _Adam,”_ Shiro repeated, exasperated, and when the man in question simply arched an eyebrow in response, Shiro scrubbed his hands over his face. “I love you,” he said, “you _know_ I love you. But we can’t just get married. _I_ can’t just get married. I’m not—I, I don’t—”

He broke off, throat clenching around his words.

He wouldn’t say ‘ _I don’t have a future’,_ because that wasn’t true. He did have a future. Maybe it wasn’t a particularly _long_ future, but he still had one. And he had plans to fill that future, for as long as he was able to—fill it with piloting, with exploring, going back into space and learning as much as he could about the universe around him. Plans that Adam didn’t necessarily _approve_ of. Plans that proved an early expiration date wasn’t equivalent to a death sentence _,_ that he could still lead a successful, full life, doing what he’d always dreamed of.

But he’d never thought about marriage. He’d never even considered it an option.

“I can’t settle down for the long run, Adam,” he continued after a moment, and shook his head. “I don’t _have_ a long run to offer you.”

And then Adam was shifting closer, all honesty and care and love. “I don’t care,” he said, so quiet and sincere, “if we have five minutes, or five decades, Takashi. I’m going to choose _you,_ for as long as I can. It’ll always be you. Don’t you get that, by now?”

And Shiro… had understood that, on some level, just based off the past four years they’d shared. Adam had always stuck by him. Had been there for every record he’s broken, for every piece of bad news he’s received, for every challenge that he’s laid waste to simply to prove that he _could._ That he could do anything anyone else could.

But marriage was different. Permanent. Marriage was something he wasn’t sure he could do.

What kind of man would that make him, to promise eternity to someone knowing he’d inevitably leave them to fend for themselves through it? To make the man that he loved watch him die?

“It’s not fair of me to ask you to make that kind of commitment,” he denied softly, and shook his head.

“You’re not asking,” Adam returned without a beat, as if already having his counterattacks at the ready. Knowing what Shiro was going to say, before even Shiro did. “You’re not the one asking,” he repeated. “Last time I checked, _I_ was the one proposing to _you,_ right now.”

Shiro swallowed, the word— _that word—_ catching him by surprise. “Is that what this is?” he asked. “A proposal?”

And then Adam was smiling a bit, again, amused and loving. “I _did_ just ask you to get married, I think. Isn’t that a proposal?”

And Shiro’s eyes were—horrifyingly enough—growing wet for the second time that day, albeit for a much different reason. Shiro swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped his eyes dry. “Adam.”

But still, he couldn’t give his boyfriend an actual _answer._

After a long moment, Adam squeezed his hand, amused expression softening once more. “Look,” he said gently, “I don’t want to push you into anything. I just—” He broke off. Swallowed, looking down at their hands. “You mean the world to me. I… _adore_ you, Takashi. And it kills me that you hold me at an arm’s length because you don’t want me to see you _weak_. Like it’s going to make me love you less, or something—make me want to leave.”

Shiro was about to interject—to say _no, you don’t_ understand, _it’s not like that—_ when Adam pressed forward.

“Because it’s not. And I know I can’t really do anything to _help,_ but I can love you, and support you, and stick by you like I’ve always tried to. And I want to. I want to be here, with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Shiro swallowed, because— _God,_ what was he supposed to say to that?

At his silence, Adam dropped his gaze again. “Look, if that’s not what you want, it’s okay—”

“ _No,”_ Shiro finally got out, and when Adam blinked at him with wide eyes, he shook his head fervently. “No, that’s not—I want to marry you.”

Hope flickered in brown eyes. “You do?”

Sighing, he squeezed Adam’s hands. “Of course I do. I just—”

Shiro broke off. Hesitated. How was he supposed to convey the fact that what he _wanted_ and what he _needed_ didn’t coexist? _Couldn’t_ coexist?

If he married Adam—the words alone, strung together in his head like this, made his heart hammer in his chest— _if he married Adam,_ he’d be… tied here. To the Garrison, to Earth’s solid terra firma. How was he supposed to follow his dreams if he knew it meant taking already limited time away from his honest-to-God _husband_?

Shiro’s words were caught in his throat. He swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Adam eased himself closer, Shiro’s hand still clasped in his own. “I’m not asking—I’m not asking because it’s something I want to do right away, or anything, but just… someday.”

Shiro blinked, lifting his gaze to Adam’s again. “Someday?”

Brown eyes softened as Adam shrugged a little. “Yeah. Someday. Look—I know you have plans, for yourself, and for your future, and I _want that_ for you. You know? I do. Even if those plans scare the shit out of me, I want you to get… everything you can, out of this life. So… someday.”

Something dangerously similar to _hope_ warmed his chest, and Shiro pressed his lips tight for a moment, not daring to let himself crack. “And if—if someday doesn’t come around for a while?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together. “If _someday_ isn’t until things are worse and I’m not… healthy, anymore?”

Adam shook his head. “I’ll still want to marry you. Jesus, Takashi, I’d carry you down the aisle myself, if I had to.”

And Shiro—God, Shiro couldn’t help the choked laugh that bubbled from his chest at that, a ridiculous kind of half-sob sound, and there was a weird _guilt_ coiled tightly behind his ribs and he felt _selfish, selfish, selfish_ when he leaned forward and curled his hands around Adam’s face, catching his mouth in a hard, urgent kiss.

He held them there for a long moment, warm and deep and so, _unreasonably_ , in love, before Adam pulled back.

There was a small smile tugging at his lips. “Is that a yes?” he asked, barely audible, but his cheeks were hot under Shiro’s fingertips and Shiro couldn’t help his own grin as his vision grew blurry.

“Yeah,” he exhaled, nodding vehemently. “Yes, I definitely—yeah, Adam. Yes. I would love to marry you. Someday. Yes. Yeah.”

Adam watched him for a moment, eyes unreadable behind his glasses, but then _he_ was grinning too and pulling Shiro onto his lap with a laugh. “God, you’re such a dork,” he muttered, but there was relief in it as he buried his face in Shiro’s neck.

(And for Halloween that year Shiro came home with matching Spiderman onesies, because yeah _,_ the bracelet really did look like some kind of knockoff web-shooter, and now whenever he looked at it he thought of the day he got sort-of engaged, and Adam’s exasperated “ _My fiancée’s an idiot,”_ was so fond and so, so worth it.)

 

*******

 

The second time they sent Shiro into deep space, he broke the record for fastest orbital velocity, beating the old heliocentric speed by about 50 kilometers per second.

Adam was waiting for him when they landed, about a week after they’d launched, with relief in his eyes and another apology on his lips as he folded Shiro into his arms.

“I never wanted to make you think I doubted you. I just worry.”

“You don’t need to protect me,” Shiro chastised gently, but melted into his warmth nonetheless.

“No,” Adam murmured in agreement, “but I want to. I’ll always want to protect you, Takashi.”

And Shiro just pulled away a little, at that, catching Adam’s eyes with his own. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see the glassiness those brown eyes held. “You can’t protect me from everything.”

Adam looked a little heartbroken, and a little reluctant, but he nodded nonetheless. “I know.”

 

*******

 

When Shiro told Adam about what happened, Adam nearly choked on his coffee.

“He _stole the car_?”

“Yes, but he—” Shiro tossed his bag to the counter, grinning. “God, Adam, you should’ve seen this kid in the simulator. He made it farther than any of the others—barely even _blinked.”_

“Right,” Adam humored, “of course, love, and I’m very happy for him? Just ah—rewind a bit, please. You bailed him out of _juvey?”_

“You don’t understand,” Shiro enthused, bowling over Adam’s concerns as he rounded the island and pulled the refrigerator open. “Honey, he made it to level _nine._ Most second-year cadets can barely do that! He’s got the reflexes of someone who’s been piloting for _years._ ”

“That is… impressive,” he admitted, as Shiro pulled a water bottle off the shelf. “Now, about the car—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shiro assured him, still grinning as he twisted the cap off. “I got it back just fine. Adam—I think he’s better than I was, at his age.”

And that? That gave Adam pause.

A beat of silence passed.

“Well, shit,” he finally conceded, and Shiro gestured widely.

“ _I know.”_

 

*******

 

The first time Shiro brought Keith back to their apartment, he darted quickly into the bathroom and moved his pill bottles from the medicine cabinet to the shoebox tucked away safely under their bed.

He wasn’t ashamed, but Keith was an orphan no family wanted to foster, let alone _keep,_ and had enough walls up for Shiro to shoulder his way through as it was. The last thing he needed was to know that his mentor, too, would soon enough join the already too-long inventory of people that have left.

If he knew Shiro was sick, that Shiro was going to leave him, Keith would shut him out completely. All the progress they’d made, down the drain in one fell swoop.

He couldn’t let Keith know.

 

*******

 

He was twenty-one when he was recommended for the Kerberos mission.

He was twenty-one the first time Adam asked him to stay.

 

*******

_“You told me you’d support me. You told me you understood.”_

_“This isn’t just some neighbor planet supply stop, Takashi—this is the farthest man-operated mission to date. It’s dangerous enough for healthy adults, don’t you get how much you’re risking?”_

 

*******

 

Shiro had always wanted a little brother.

Growing up, it had just been him and his parents. After their accident, it was just him and his grandfather. He’d had plenty of interaction with other kids through school, but home was always quiet.

Now, he found his afternoons filled with the rush of air in his ears, with thrilled, exhilarated cries of joy and the growl of revving engines reverberating through him like a second heartbeat.

Now, behind him, he could hear Keith laughing, louder then he’d ever heard before, as they dove nose-first towards the solid, packed clay of the canyon floor.

He’d finally wanted to try it, after weeks of working up to it.  And he’d been nervous and daring when he went up to Shiro to ask _,_ and he reminded Shiro so much of himself sometimes that it made his chest ache.

Keith had been so… reserved, for a while, that Shiro wasn’t sure he’d ever get through to him. He was a live wire when it came to his peers, ready to explode at any minute, but with Shiro, he’d always been kind and quiet and withdrawn. Polite, even _._

It didn’t take Shiro long to figure out that the explosions, the fights and the black eyes and the bruised knuckles, they were all _reactive._ When people bit him, he bit back—it was as simple as that. Keith wasn’t looking for trouble, he just had a temper and trouble seemed to find him, and those two things together built him up this nice laundry list of offenses and labels and misdemeanors that people who _didn’t_ have trouble chasing them would brand as “aggressive tendencies”. And they would never see past that, because aggressive tendencies are _dangerous_ and need to be dealt with, but also—

—Keith was so much more than that aggression. Keith was intelligent. His marks were spectacular, even if he was losing points for conduct. He was skillful. He had instincts that were on the nose and more talent in his pinky finger than ninety percent of second or third year cadets. He was compassionate. He always—always—retreated to eat lunch by himself in some secluded corner or another, but one day when Shiro dipped out of a meeting early to go meet him in the cafeteria, that boy positively _lit up_ at the idea of not eating alone. It was written all over his face, that joy, that _loneliness,_ and Shiro could see that he was one to feel everything, even if he spoke very little about it. He was _gentle,_ even though his emotions were not. He was gentle, even though his actions sometimes suggest otherwise.

Shiro knew there were some things about Keith that he’d never understand. It didn’t matter how supportive he tried to be, there were some things he just would never _get._ He’d never get what it felt like to be carted away from another failed home by an exhausted social worker. He’d never get what it felt like to have a parent willingly walk away from him. He’d never get what it felt like to filter through families and homes that may have been— _were probably—_ neglectful or abusive or harmful in physical and nonphysical ways. He just _wouldn’t_.

But he knew what it was like to lose family. He knew what it was like to just _not have_ blood relatives to turn to, and how much that could ache when life was turning to shit. He knew what it was like to use piloting as an escape. To need that rush of adrenaline to keep himself moving, to keep himself from falling apart.

So he took Keith hoverbiking. And today they were cliff diving.

He let out his own breathless laugh as he pulled up, everything inside of him lurching with the changing momentum, and behind him, he heard the shifting rush from Keith pulling up, as well.

There was a whoop of laughter, and when they pulled to a stop and pulled free of their helmets, Keith wore the biggest grin he’s seen to date.

“Shiro, can we—can we do that again? _Please?”_

Shiro ruffled his hair fondly, ignoring the tangled, sweaty mess, and bit back a grin of his own. He’d always felt untouchable while flying—maybe that was another thing they shared in common. Maybe Keith, too, felt like the world couldn’t hurt him there.

“Sure, kiddo. Race you back to the top?”

“Oh, you’re on, old timer.”

 

*******

 

He was twenty-two when the launch date was set.

He was twenty-two the first time Adam begged him to stay.

 

*******

_“It’s worth the risk. Adam, this is—this is everything I’ve ever_ wanted, _don’t you see?”_

_A beat._

_“Everything you’ve ever wanted?”_

_“...You know I didn’t mean it like that.”_

_“Then how did_ _you mean it, Takashi?”_

 

*******

 

He was twenty-three when Commander Holt convinced Admiral Sanda to let him go.

He was twenty-three when the Kerberos crew was officially declared, with Shiro confirmed as the pilot.

He was twenty-three when _someday_ became a distant dream.

 

*******

 

He was twenty-four when Kerberos launched.

He was twenty-four when the love of his life walked away from him, maybe forever.

 

*******

 

“ _Don’t expect me to be here when you get back.”_

The words replayed in his head while the fight drained out of him. The restraints weren’t budging, and blood was pooling at his right side, warm and sticky as it seeped through the bandages wrapped haphazardly around his bicep, as it seeped through the rags of his shirt. He could taste the tang of it in the air, metallic and sharp.

At least his body had gone numb from it, he supposed. He’d passed out when he’d first felt the grinding of saw-on-bone, shooting through his shoulder and clavicle and sternum and skull, and when he’d woken up, he was numb.

If the druids didn’t kill him, the blood loss surely would.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about facing Adam’s disappointment, this way. He wouldn’t be forced to feel that ache of loneliness when Adam inevitably cut all ties with him, because at this rate, he’d never even make it back to Earth.

He thought about Adam, with his ultimatums and soft eyes. He thought about Commander Holt, working in a lab, designing weapons for a hostile, warmongering alien race. He thought about Matt, laboring away in some camp somewhere for prisoners of a war he was never supposed to be a part of. He thought about Keith, all alone and on Earth, still expecting him to come home.

He eyed the prosthetic from its case across the room as his vision grew dim. He knew what they were planning—he’d known it from the moment that witch had taken a bone saw to his un-anesthetized arm.

Joke’s on her, though, because he was fading fast.

She’d lose her Champion, and Shiro would be fine with that.

He came to terms with an early death a long time ago, after all. He wasn’t afraid.


End file.
